The Wind Will Change
by KnightAmemait
Summary: Percival Weasley. OotP. Need we say more? A OneShot about the most underloved redheaded character in the HP universe.


The Wind Will Change

By JK Fie'r

Summary: Percival Weasley. Set in OotP. Need I say more?

Warnings: Kiwi spelling.

Special thanks go to Quatre Winner for Beta-ing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

--

_Young Percy Weasley looked up at his brother Billy, sticking out his tongue, waggling his ears, and wrinkling his nose, in what could only be called a 'silly' expression when it was being performed by one so young._

_Billy laughed, kneeling down to look Percy in the eye._

"_Don't do that Perc. Something awful might happen."_

--

Percival Weasley, currently personal assistant to the British Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, stuck his tongue out slightly as he looked over his Boss' appointments for the day, making a few notes for the Minister's convenience.

"Likes Quodpot…" he muttered under his breath, writing – his handwriting was far too neat to be called _scribbling_! – furiously. So intent on his work, he was startled when an owl landed on his desk and hooted softly.

Hastily rubbing out the offending blotch on the paper, he took the letter absent-mindedly, then placed it aside to fumble for a tidbit for the ball of feathers.

"Good owl," he muttered, indicating that it could leave now, before turning his attention to the envelope now in his hands.

The _red_ envelope.

Opening it with one hand before it could explode and leave scorch marks, he quickly pushed his quills and paperwork aside, casting a silencing charm at the Minister's door so he wouldn't be disturbed.

Unnoticed, a couple of quills fell to the floor as the screaming started.

"AND HOW DARE YOUR PEOPLE AT THE MINISTRY TAKE NO NOTICE WHEN THE BOY-WHO-LIVED SAYS SOMETHING AS IMPORTANT AS YOU-KNOW-WHO RETURNING HAPPENED – AND IS BACKED UP BY ALBUS DUMBLEDORE HIMSELF ABOUT IT! YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF MINISTER-"

The letter continued in this vein for fully a minute, then exploded.

"I wonder if they realise he doesn't ever actually receive these things personally?" Percy asked the air around him, brushing soot off his desk with a dustpan and brush kept especially for these occasions.

"Another Howler there Weasley?"

Percy jumped, almost – but not quite – spilling the contents of the dustpan down the front of Minister's pinstriped robes.

"Sir! Sorry, I didn't hear you come out of your office."

"Quite all right, Percival. I appreciate that you put up the silencing charm for my convenience," Fudge said, using his glorified secretary's given name deliberately to appear more friendly. If anything, Fudge actually thought of the kid as 'Weatherby,' having heard Bartemius Crouch call him that far too often. Fudge himself hadn't slipped up yet though, which was the important thing.

"Not a problem sir!"

Cornelius Fudge, generally regarded as a genial man, eyed his newest assistant with a look that betrayed nothing of what he was thinking.

"What was this one about then?" he asked, pretending to take an interest.

He'd originally taken on the third of the Weasley children – good Pureblood family, such a pity that the father was so daft about muggles the entire time – with an eye to using him to spy on Dumbledore and his group, but drat it all if the young man hadn't gone and ruined the whole plan by getting into an argument with the rest of his family over the whole He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-returning issue within the week! Still, he'd kept the redhead on, taking the view that the younger Wizard might suspect something otherwise, and had discovered something quite surprising, considering his background.

Percy Weasley was born to organise. He was Merlin's gift to management, with the ability to deal with the endlessly mundane in an efficient manner that put the rest of his P.A.s to shame, and _he was happy to do it_.

In short, he was useful to have around… and there was always the possibility for him to reconcile with the rest of his family…

"Oh, another one of young Potter's supporters. We've been getting more of them, mostly from nameless sources, ever since that blasted article appeared in _The Quibbler_."

"Hm," Fudge answer noncommittally. It was a politician's habit. Never commit to one thing or the other unless you're absolutely certain that it will help your campaign.

"Sir, is there any chance of setting up that Howler block I mentioned earlier? It'd only cost a Galleon a month to set it up, and, quite frankly, we'd be saving a fortune in burnt quills and scorched furniture."

"If you like, you could go and have a word with Accounting and Procurements about it when you've got a bit of free time," Fudge said indulgently. Weasley quirked a smile at him, before burying it under mental paperwork.

"Thank you sir."

Fudge hesitated. He'd gotten another owl from Dumbledore today – the man had the sense to realise it wouldn't get through to him at work, and had therefore sent it directly to his home address, using that wonderful tracking system that he had at his disposal as Headmaster of Hogwarts. It had been a last (and to Fudge's mind, _desperate_) plea to his 'better nature' for him to join in a crusade against the Dark Lord, whose return Fudge still believed to be fictitious.

The consequences of it being true were all far too terrible to contemplate.

"Percival…" he began, as the younger man finished sweeping, and emptied the dustpan into the trash.

"Yes sir?" Eagerness-to-please practically radiated from the redhead's every pore; it rather reminded the Minister of Gerome, the dog his family had owned when he had been a child.

"Be honest… You do think I'm making the right decision over the whole You-Know-Who affair, don't you?"

Weasley couldn't have looked more surprised if Albus Dumbledore had asked him for fashion tips.

"Sir, I think you're making exactly the right decision. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named can't possibly have come back from the dead. Potter's just after a bit more personal glory."

"Yet your parents-"

"If you'll forgive the interruption sir, my parents have no idea about life, sir. They'd follow Dumbledore blindly if he suggested a trip through the Veil." There was a look of restrained fury on the young man's face now. "My parents, along with the rest of my family, are idiots, sir. I had some few hopes for my youngest brother Ronald, but they appear to have been misplaced. I'm not going to switch sides, sir, if that is what you are implying." A sneer. "That's not my style."

Cornelius Fudge blinked. The response, while not entirely unexpected, had been said so harshly that almost all hope of using the taller (younger, taller, thinner, more hair; some people had all the luck!) Wizard as a spy flew out the metaphorical window.

Oh well.

Even though he was as dead set against Dumbledore and co., Weasley was still an asset, albeit merely in terms of general staffing.

"Glad to hear it," the Minister said weakly, and headed out of the office (presumably for a toilet break; there wasn't anything on his appointments schedule for that moment, and he always sent Percy if he wanted a cup of tea).

Percy smiled mentally.

The wind was blowing in the direction of the Ministry, and that didn't look like changing too much, even if the public response from Potter's recent article in that magazine had them talking. After all, it _had_ appeared in the least reliable of any Wizarding magazine, and had been written by sensationalist journalist Rita Skeeter; while she had a following, her popularity had dimmed recently due to her lack of articles of late (the reporter had cited 'personal reasons' for her suddenly retiring nature, something that young Weasley took to mean 'I-might-be-pregnant-and-am-not-sure-who-the-father-is').

If Dumbledore wanted to make a fool of himself, so be it. If he happened to drag Percy's parents down too… well, that was too bad for his family, but the third-born would _not_ be dragged down with them!

No, Percival Weasley had expressed a wish to stay with the Ministry, and that was what he was going to do.

--

_Percy blinked, retracting his tongue so he could talk._

"_Wha' sorta fings Billy?"_

_Billy reached out and ruffled his little brother's curly red hair, a shade or so darker than his own straight mass, pointing at the weathercock on the top of the neighbouring house as he spoke._

"_Why Perc, the wind could change and you'd be stuck like that!"_

--

Owari

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May the Force be with you!


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